Dylan Moran can't tame his unruly hair. Photo / Supplied
It's quite something to watch a bloke go through his set-piece moves and yet make a full house of strangers feel like he's sharing quality face-time at the bar.
Just a little lively banter over one or two too many red wines perhaps? Well, when I say "banter", I really
mean "harangue".
Moran fair rages against the human condition, pricking the minor inconveniences that make the enjoyment of an honest day's slothful self-indulgence so difficult to achieve.
But it took a fair while for him to channel that true, deep Wildean anger. Whether it was jetlag or the malaise that had him coughing like a dedicated chain smoker, the first half was more of a jocular warm-up for the spittle-flecked blur that followed.
But once he'd found his dander - with one hand failing to tame its unruly hair while the other grasped for the oddly bottomless glass of wine - any ill-timed applause or interjection was slapped down in imperious fashion as he half-dashed half-shambled from one subject to the next.
To be honest, the subjects were mostly standard fair, but Moran has a wit with wonderful powers of reanimation. And as jokes go, they aren't really. His style is more a cutting spiel of dismay where the final stab at the nub grows to a flurry, leaving his target a bloody smear on the floor.
Not that his character seems like one that is eager for serious exertion - Moran's is more the slacker's anger. Sure, he'll point the way, maybe even offer a shout of encouragement, but then he'll run a bath, open a fresh bottle and start up all over again: "And here's another thing ..."
Everyone leaves happy.
